


As it Goes

by direcxu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-06-01 19:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6532627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/direcxu/pseuds/direcxu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ygritte survives the Battle for Castle Black, and Jon Snow discovers that she is more to him than just a lover. Updated sparingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten version of an old story for those of you who have read it (now erase that memory from your mind).

She had lost track of time, Ygritte realized. She’d been staring at the same black wall for what felt like an eternity and the ache in her shoulder never seemed to stop.

There were no windows in the dungeons. It was relentlessly lonesome and dark and dull. The other few free folk who managed to survive the raid on Castle Black had been sealed off like her. Only a torch kept the hall dim with light, its fire dancing along the stone walls and floors. At times the fire would go out and the cell would blacken further, but when Jon Snow came to visit her, the flames followed.

Ygritte’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness and her ears learned to listen for the smallest sounds. Sometimes she heard the rats scurry across the hall before they made it to her cell. In the beginning, when she could scarcely keep her eyes open against the fevers, she’d fallen asleep and rolled over onto the wrong side. The wound in her shoulder burned when she moved the slightest and stung when she tried to do anything else. But as the days stretched on and nights seemed to last forever, Ygritte grew used to the pain.

The others would wake her sometimes, talking across their cells of escape and of whispers about Mance Rayder and Tormund Giantsbane. Ygritte hardly listened. The fevers were long and miserable, but perhaps the gods had pitied her and let her live for the fevers never claimed her life.

Many times she wondered if her delusions had been just that or if Jon Snow truly did bring her salves when she was the only one awake. Ygritte heard his voice in her dreams, quiet but soft, and gentle in her ear. She’d often dream of him and that cave, and of her anger when he left.

There was one night she was near certain he visited her. Ygritte could scarcely keep her eyes open, but she saw him standing at the door, his face long and solemn and guarded. 

“Jon Snow,” she called to him, nearly losing his surname on her tongue. Her eyes were closed when his thumb brushed along her cheek and his lips kissed that spot near her nose.

“Hush,” he told her. “Don’t talk.”

Had she really been dreaming? 

The sound of footsteps kept Ygritte from dwelling on those worse times. Any notion that Jon Snow had come to visit faded when the pair of footsteps turned into pairs, and the crows were pulling her to her feet.

“Mance dies today,” they said. “The red woman demands it.”

“They’re goin’ ta make us watch?” One of the others asked, shocked.

The crow frowned. “She’s makin’ all of us watch.”

Stannis’ men brought forward Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, in a thin tunic and chains. His face was guarded to his core, concealing all his fears so the free folk who were forced to watch him die could remember him bravely. Ygritte had hoped that they would let Mance keep his cloak, but _Stannis is not a man known for showing sympathy to turncloaks_ , Jon Snow had said.

The men turned Mance roughly towards their king and his red shadow, the Lady Melisandre. 

“Mance Rayder,” the false king began, his voice breaking the heavy silence. “You’ve been called the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Westeros only has one king.” He raised his chin. “Bend the knee and I promise you mercy.” 

Tormund told her to stay quiet, _not a word_ , and watch. Ygritte always believed that Mance would fight until the crows plunged a sword through his heart. But it was Stannis and the priestess from Asshai who would deliver his death. The wargs told stories of how death felt warm near the end, warm and sleepy. Ygritte saddened at the thought that Mance would never see the green lands, the warm lands beyond the Wall that he used to sing about. His death would not feel warm and sleepy, and black would be the last thing he sees beyond the flames.

“Kneel and live." 

Mance surveyed the castle. Everyone saw his eyes drift across the structures before him. “This was my home for many years.” He said, and Stannis smiled wickedly. “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”

They tied him to the pyre then, bound his wrists tightly. Lady Melisandre stepped forward next to the wooden scaffold. “We all must choose,” she declared. “Man or woman, young or old, lord or peasant, our choices are the same.” Her voice reminded Ygritte of the wood’s witch, whispering nonsense and false prophecies to no one. “We choose light or we choose darkness. We choose good or we choose evil. We choose the true god or the false.”

She reached for the torch. Mance watched the flames as they danced near him. Ygritte saw that he was afraid. He had been afraid from the moment he knew he would die. Mance did not want to die.

“Free folk! There is only one true king, and his name is Stannis. Here stands your king of lies. Behold the fate of those who choose the darkness.” The priestess turned to light the pyre as softly as anyone would a candle.

“ _What will they do to Mance?” Ygritte asked, her eyes pleading._  

_“They’re going to burn him alive.”_

_Her face twisted in horror and her heart sank in her chest. She searched his eyes for any falsehood and found none, hoping that Jon would say something else. Another choice perhaps, any other option, but he had not. Mance brought them all to the Wall so they could live free from the Others, but he wouldn’t taste that freedom. Not ever._

_“I told him he was making a terrible mistake,” Jon reasoned. “He wouldn’t listen.”_

When the fire reached Mance he began to whimper. His boots caught the flames, Ygritte saw, and soon would his flesh. If he did not scream then, he surely would, or he was the one true god Lady Melisandre often preached of. The blood of the dragon.

In the corner of her eye, Ygritte saw someone move away. She did not bother to see for herself. Across the courtyard, the little girl with the stone face closed her eyes. Surely others closed their eyes as well. Ygritte would not close hers, she would watch. Tormund would know if she didn’t. The free folk were no cowards.

One arrow suddenly took Mance in the chest. His restrained cries stopped and everyone below turned to see who let loose the string. The King-Beyond-the-Wall fell forward against the pyre.

Stannis Baratheon scowled. Jon Snow refused to meet his eyes atop the deck above.

His arrow was mercy. _A mercy the Lord of Light will not so easily forgive_ , Ygritte heard the Lady Melisandre say. _The night is dark and full of terrors_.

The heat from the fire warmed the crows that stood guard at the castle gate. Ygritte’s skin dampened beneath her furs. She thought of Jon and the free folk beyond the Wall. Mance’s band. The gate would open for them soon.

They came slowly at first, limping or leaning on their fellows, wary of some trap. More followed when they saw that no harm had come to those who went before. Then more, until it was a steady stream. Some men cringed as they neared the flames. Children cried, others fled and others considered fleeing. Behind them was only cold and death. So they came on, clutching their wives and children close. Bowls of hot onion soup awaited them, and chunks of black bread and sausage. Stannis’ men gave them clothes to wear and piles of clean straw to sleep on, with fires blazing to keep the cold night at bay.

Jon had told Ygritte how Stannis planned to win the hearts of the free folk so that they may fight for him in the wars to come. _He can give them land and mercy, but your lot choose their own kings, and it was Mance they chose, not Stannis_. Mance had been bound to a pyre and burned alive. If Stannis thought sausages and onion soup and fresh linens would change their minds, he was a bigger fool than all the other fools in the seven kingdoms.

By the time the last of them passed through, night had fallen and the fire burned low. The giants had passed through the Wall, some with their mammoths, big as they were.

“You are free to go,” Stannis told them. “Tell your people what you witnessed. Tell them that you saw the true king, and that they are welcome in his realm, so long as they keep his peace. Else they had best flee or hide. I will brook no further attacks upon my Wall.”

When Stannis had gone, the red woman with him, Ygritte saw Jon descend from the deck.

“Lord Steward,” he called out to Bowen Marsh. “Break up that stockade for firewood and unchain the prisoners.”

“As my lord commands.” Marsh barked out orders, and a swarm of his stewards broke from their ranks to attack the wooden walls. Ygritte’s chains came loose after Tormund’s and she turned to catch Jon Snow’s eyes before he chattered quietly with Bowen Marsh.

Ygritte drew the cold night air through her nose, free from her black cell and its gloomy black walls. She slipped away from the sight of the crows given the chance, and hid in the room behind the empty armory. Jon resided there, she remembered. The Lord Commander’s tower burned down during the raid on Castle Black. The pink scar on her shoulder pricked at the memory.

When Jon arrived that night, Ygritte kissed him so fiercely that all his breath left his lungs. Ghost curled up on the rug beside the door and slept as though the world had never been so cruel.

“You spent too much time with us, Jon Snow.” Ygritte said when she pulled away, her eyes drifting down to his reddened lips. He stared back at her, dumbfounded, any words he hoped to say were lost. It was the first time they’d kissed since he’d left her.

“I’m sorry.” Jon said finally. He was, she knew. Jon respected Mance and admired his ability to gather all the free folk and march south. Mance had respected Jon the same; else there would be more bodies near the Haunted Forest to stain the snow red.


	2. Chapter 2

“Too thick.” Tormund loomed over, his green eyes scrutinizing her work. “It will cut nothing.”

Ygritte made a face. “I’ll cut you with it, old man.”

“Har! Might be one day you will, but it’s too thick, girl. Don’t you see?”

Ygritte had been working the steel for hours, hammering and heating and drawing until her shoulder felt as though it too were sweltering. The past fortnight had come and gone, just as Mance Rayder the night Stannis Baratheon burned him alive. Ygritte found herself thinking of Mance as she honed her skills in the armory, remembering the flames as her weapons stewed in the furnace. She wondered how long those who fled back north would last before the Others took them. The days were growing shorter, and far colder. Cold enough that when the snows came, they fell faster than the crows could clear them. The underground tunnels were opened then, and before long, Ygritte had found her way about them.

“Draw it out. Start at the hilt and work the hammer down, not on, or it will widen.” Tormund took her hammer and the sword, heating the steel until it burned red-hot in the forge. He placed it against the side of the anvil and struck hard. Three times, Ygritte counted, and three times more an inch down. When the red had cooled to grey, she saw that the sword had lengthened, and that Tormund left behind as many marks as there were trees in the haunted forest.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, “a quick grind should do it nice. Make it slick as a baby seal. Har!”

North of the Wall, it was near impossible to come across good steel, if there was any steel to be found. Castle Black’s armory was stacked with longswords and axes and daggers—half of which were blunt or amiss, for the armorer who worked the forge before died defending the castle. Without a man to service them, the Lord Commander directed those who could forge, free or not, to attend it. Castle Black needed all its steel, and all its men. However, the offer was not without compromise. Anything the free folk created or finished on the Watch’s land was to be surrendered upon completion. Those who remained to serve were permitted to keep their weapons for training. The Master-at-Arms watched over them all, and he was as cold as any Thenn north of the Wall. Ser Alliser’s loathing of the free folk and contempt for his own men was so plain it was almost infuriating. His face was always scowling, and it deepened the lines of his forehead and mouth. The free folk named him the “Master-o’-Thorns”, wondering if it was the cold that had frozen his icy heart, or the wind that chased all the warmth from his hard, black eyes.

“You would supply them with hatchets—”

“We need all our steel,” Ygritte had heard Jon say earlier. “We will gain from this compromise, Ser Alliser.”

The man scoffed. “Bargain with a wilding and the only steel you’ll get from them is a stab in the gut, Lord Snow.”

Ser Alliser turned and walked away, frowning in contempt. Jon sighed and shook his head.

“A stab in the gut—or ten,” the boy beside him muttered. “One of those wildlings killed my father. Buried an arrow right through his skull.”

To that, Jon had naught to say.

They all seemed to dislike Castle Black, even the crows, but it was better than what was coming from the north. It was better than the winter snows that buried their homes, and better than the frozen lakes with their dead fish. It was better than freezing limbs and empty bellies and white walkers, no matter how much they wanted to leave. Castle Black had food and weapons and shelter from the worst of the cold. It had all the things they lost, so long as they behaved. Had the Old Bear still been Lord Commander, the castle would have meant death, but Jon Snow was their commander now.

The sword Ygritte had been working since dawn was finally longer than her arm, and all she had left to do was grind away the marks. Her shoulder was throbbing by the time it was done, but her efforts were well worth the hard labor. As she turned it against the light, the steel was straight as an arrow, the edges dull against her bare fingers. The pommel was wrapped with a thin layer of worn black leather, a remnant of the sword she had melted down. When she held it, the grip was strong and well-shaped to her hand. Ygritte had given her sword several swings to warrant its durability, and tested the edge on different training posts. In time, she would have the edges sharp, and then her steel would cut through wood and flesh alike. But for now, she brought an oilcloth from the stockroom and ran it down the blade until glistened against the firelight.

The moon had settled well into the night sky when she finished, and the only soul that loomed within the courtyard was hers. The others had retired to the mess hall for supper, leaving behind two brothers to keep watch at the gate, but they always hid inside the towers when the night grew very cold.

The doors of the mess hall opened as Ghost nudged himself through, licking his muzzle to savor all that was left of the sausages Hobb eagerly provided him. The direwolf sniffed at the snow before lifting his eyes to study the yard. They settled over Ygritte’s, and at night, they shone as red as the leaves on weirwood trees. Beyond the Wall, he would run free among them, only to return when the moon was well in the sky. There would be blood on his muzzle and meat in his belly, yet still the direwolf curled up between her and Jon, and she would relish in his warmth. He lost that freedom on this side of the Wall, but sometimes Jon would let him roam outside the castle. When the weather was forgiving and time less scarce, he would accompany his wolf, but many things have changed since then.

“Ghost,” a voice called across the court. “To me.”

Ever obedient, the wolf padded off to greet Jon Snow, who had not yet seen Ygritte inside the armory. He scratched Ghost behind the ears and smiled. “How many sausages did Hobb give you this time?”

Ghost licked at his muzzle again. Their breaths lingered in the frigid night air before the wolf turned to Ygritte again. She was no longer hidden.

“Didn’t want t’ ruin the moment,” Ygritte quipped, emerging from the armory. Her fingers found the hilt of her sword. “I’ve got somethin’ t’ show you, Lord Snow.”

She knew he never loved that name, but it was all the more reason for her to use it.

Jon crossed the yard, his black cloak picking up the snow as it dragged behind. Ghost padded alongside and licked the snowflakes as they fell on his nose. Ygritte unsheathed her sword from its makeshift scabbard and held it out for Jon to see.

“Took me all day t’ get it nice,” she began as he removed his gloves to take the weapon in his hands. He studied its shape, grey eyes exploring the length and bare hands probing for any unaligned edges.

“You did this?” He asked, surprised. Jon held out the sword and turned it against the firelight, testing the weight and feeling for the grip. He seemed pleased.

“Aye. It’s not the blunt ol’ thing you saw afore. This one’s good, but tomorrow it’ll be better.”

He smiled at that. “Who do you plan to use this on?”

“There’s a few lot here I wouldn’t mind,” Ygritte grinned. “Wanted t’ wait for the right time, but if you’re askin’...”

Jon laughed softly. “Try not to skewer anyone with it for now.”

“I’ll need someone t’ teach me how to use it.”

He looked at her funny. “And where would we do that?”

“Your room.”

“You would ruin my things.”

“I’ll ruin you once I’m good enough.”

Jon laughed at that.

He examined the sword for a little while longer, until she noticed something change in him. Most folk were plain to read; they left every trace of themselves along their face, but Jon Snow did little to give that away. He was impassive, stark, and brooding. His face gave away nothing, but everything all the same if someone knew how to look. Ygritte recognized the small shift of his brow, the ever-slight turn of his mouth, the emotion only his eyes would show. She had been with him long enough to know when something troubled him. “What’s the matter?”

For a moment, Jon was silent, watching the blade but never seeing it. He offered it back to her and said, “We should go inside. Wait here.”

He scratched Ghost behind the ears before calling for him to follow. The direwolf had his own enclosure across the yard, and it was there he spent his nights until Jon returned or Dolorus Edd released him at dawn.

Ygritte slid her sword into its scabbard and waited. When he returned, she followed him to the room behind the armory where Jon had taken up residence after the Lord Commander’s tower perished during the battle. The Watch lacked resources to rebuild it, and so it sat as a black pile of unburdened rubble. In his new bedchamber, the stone walls were not as smooth as his workplace, and the wood of the floor creaked beneath their feet, but there was a large hearth in the middle of the room. If it burned long enough, the room was so warm Ygritte could remove her furs without shivering. Better yet, Jon had moved his bed close enough to warm the sheets. The first night she had shared that bed with him, there was nothing Jon could do to will her out of it. Ygritte reveled in the comfort of the furs and how warm it always was. Compared to her quarters, to which she almost always left vacant now, they were rooms suited for a king.

“Could I ask something of you?” Jon said, locking the door behind them.

“What’s that?”

He paused for a moment. “There’s something I want to do. Something that could end gravely, or make all my men hate me. I am afraid it will end with blood, but the free folk…they should be south of the Wall, preparing for the Others. I want your people to join us in the fight against them when the time comes.”

This surprised her.

“The Night’s Watch can’t stop them. We both know the free folk can’t stop them. No one can, but if we all defend the Wall together—”

“You think they’ll do that?” She challenged, suddenly upset. “Think they’ll kneel? Not for you, Jon Snow, not for your southern king, not for anyone.”

“I don’t want them to kneel,” he frowned. “I want every man and woman who can fight to join us when the time comes.”

“The free folk fight won’t fight for you. You know nothing. They’d be dead before they man your Wall.”

“We’re all going to die. All of us. I’m not asking your people to take the Black. I’m asking them to fight with us, and not alone.”

“Aye,” Ygritte nodded. “And you’re a fool t’ think they’ll do it.”

“What do you think will happen if all those children, the sick and the elderly are left behind?” Jon stepped closer. “Mance is dead. Your people lost their leader, and now they need another.”

Ygritte scoffed. “And who’s that? You?”

“Tormund.”

She considered that for a moment. Mance had united ninety clans over the course of twenty years, and Tormund had been there for a great deal of it. He knew his people, and they knew him. He was a friend to those under his command, and a leader to those who knew him naught. If Tormund called upon the clans to fight for the right purpose, Ygritte believed they would follow suit, yet they could decide otherwise. They were free folk after all, _free_ to choose who they wanted to follow. If Jon believed that sending Tormund as his envoy would be successful, he was wrong.  “Aye, he might be. But it’s your southern king who wants us to kneel and march. What about him?”

Jon seemed to relax at that, ever slightly. “He won’t take you. I spoke with him earlier. But I will have my men stand down at the gates and allow the rest of the free folk through. There’s land in the Gift, and it might be too late to farm crops, but the woods are full of game and there’s plenty of land to build homes.”

Ygritte decided to ask about Stannis later. “Those are words, Jon Snow. They will mean nothing, as they do now.”

He fell silent.

“You’re the king crow,” she offered. “Go with Tormund, and come back to show them lot the land you promised, or they won’t go.”

Jon’s gaze fell to the floor in thought. “I’ll speak with him at first light then. Does this make me a fool?”

“No,” she answered. “It makes you brave. Stupid, but brave.”

“My men will hate me.”

“Aye, they’ll hate you. They hate you now.” For that was the truth, harsh as it was.

“If I do nothing, the Others will take us all.”

Ygritte stepped forward. “Are you the Lord Crow Commander, afraid t’ fly from your nest, or the man who will lead us into the Long Night?”

“I am the shield that guards the realms of men,” he said. “All men.”

“So, guard. Bring them north south, before the Others do.” Ygritte could not decide whether to be relieved as well, or uncertain. No matter the decision, it would be dangerous. The north was a rough and arduous place, its people no different. They would listen to Tormund, but how many clans will turn him away when Jon Snow, the turncloak crow, is at his side? Ygritte considered going with them, but no one would listen to her. She was no leader. Her words meant little if not nothing, but it was an excuse to leave Castle Black. She could benefit from a good distraction. “I’ll help. Wherever you go, I go too.”

“Are you certain?”

“A free woman rides where she will,” she reminded him.

Jon nodded. “Very well.”

Ygritte tightened her fingers around the hilt of her sword. “How’s it you’re going t’ bring all them free folk south?”

“It depends,” he answered. “First, we need to know where the rest of your people are. Mance only brought half his men—the others must be close enough to know when to move. If we could arrive on horseback within a few days, that would be ideal.”

“And if it’s more?”

“Then it might be too late,” Jon said woefully. “Winter is near. We are losing time and resources. The vaults are scarce with food, and the Watch cannot continue to feed Stannis and his men both.”

Ygritte nodded. She hadn’t forgotten about him and his demanding army. “You said you spoke t’ him.”

“Aye,” he sighed with relief. “The king plans to march his army south within the fortnight, before the heavy snows.”

 _And who will he burn there with his woman o’ fire?_ She looked at him knowingly. Stannis had, after all, offered to make Jon Snow the lord of his beloved home three days prior, with all its lands and incomes and titles of Starks. “Did you refuse?”

Jon nodded almost sadly. “I swore a sacred vow and pledged my life. If I break those oaths, so will my men, and what will the Night’s Watch be then?”

“Liar,” Ygritte seized his breeches by the waistband, grinning wickedly when he blushed like a maid. “You’re good at breakin’ oaths, I reckon. And how the breakin’ is _sweet_ , Jon Snow.”

“That is entirely different,” his face flowered.

“We fuck in your bed many a night. It’s no different. Half your crows go t’ lie with a woman in the night. None o’ them are loyal, not like you,” she released him. “If some southern king named them Stark, they’d be south gone. Traitors. But not you. Your honor is shoved so far up your arse that I’ll never get t’ see more castles.”

That made him smile. “You’ll see a hundred castles. You’re kissed by fire, remember? It will take more than an arrow to kill you.”

She laughed. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who still follow this and have waited for it until now, and to those of you who are new, thank you. Seriously.
> 
> This story is edited by Kissed by Dirt, a good friend. We’ve been discussing ideas for so long that this has become something we’ve worked on together. She’s both a genius and an inspiration, and writes some pretty amazing work herself.


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